PS 635 

.29 
W2336 
Copy 1 



fHAT GIRL" 




By Lillic Nolting Walker 



a 



THAT GIRL" 



By Lillie Nolting Walker 



Denver, Colorado 

1560 York Street 

1916 







(Copyright, February 24, 1916.) 



p. 



d* 



uihi -8 1916 

'OLD 43949 

1 » 



To my daughter 

RUTH 

whose love and devotion 

were my inspiration 

is this play lovingly 

dedicated 



"THAT GIRL" 

THREE ACTS 

PERSONS 

Ruth Bonelle, an orphan — "That Girl." 

Mr. and Mrs. Park, social climbers. 

John Park. 

Alice Park. 

Robert Park. 

Mildred Park. 

Jane Adams 

Helen Brown 

Elizabeth Grey 

Mr. Mintnier, eccentric uncle of Ruth. 

Leigh O'Doud, maid. 

Mrs. Wild, poor woman. 

Jack Wild. 

Daniel, Preacher, Doctor, Nurse. Lena Lewis, Small Child. 

ACT I. 

Scene 1. Room in Mr. Park's house, Mrs. Park reading. 
Child playing. Enter Mr. Park. Child greets him. 

Mr. Park: Well, Lena, what does that frown mean 
on your fair brow? 

Mrs. Park: George, I've never been more annoyed in 
my life. Yesterday I received this letter from Mrs. Clifton, 
and what do you think she has asked us to do? 

Mildred: Papa, why won't my dolly cry any more? 

Mr. Park: What do you generally do to make her cry? 

Mildred: Punch her in the stomach. 

Mr. Park: Well, if that won't work, we shall have to 
l)ii y a new one. What has she asked you to do, Lena? 
Didn't know that you corresponded. 

Mrs. P.: Well, we do occasionally, and I am sure that 
the mention in my last letter of the fact that I am now 
serving on the Charity Board prompted her to make this 
•absurd request. 

Mr. P.: Well, out with it — what does she want you 
to do? 

Mrs. P.: She wants us to take into our home for a 
year a poor orphan girl. 

5 



Mr. P. : Tell her that you can't do it if you don't want 
her— that's easy. (Takes up paper.) 

Mrs. P.: It's not so easy as you think. You haven't 
a particle of foresight. Don't you know that Mr. Clifton, 
with his great wealth and influence, can be of immeasur- 
able assistance to you in the coming election? 

Mr. P.: This currying favor with the rich, and this 
pretense sicken me! Who is this girl, and why doesn't 
Mrs. Clifton play the good Samaritan herself? 

Mrs, P.: (Reads) "Ruth Bonelle is the daughter of 
an old friend who attended college with me. Her parents 
were drowned a few months ago while out boating. She 
has no living relatives, save an old eccentric uncle who 
has taken her into his home. He loves her dearly, but a 
young girl should have an environment different from that 
established by a queer old man and a careless housekeeper. 
I have not seen her, but her uncle described her as being 
'plain, gentle and good.' Her parents had been in very 
comfortable circumstances, but owing to some unfortunate 
investments, the girl is penniless." 

Mrs. P. (Tossing aside letter): There you have it! 
Encouraging, isn't it? "Plain," "gentle," "good," "poor!" 
I never shall understand why people like Mrs. Clifton can 
do such impossible things! 

Mr. P.: Stop your fussing and write and say NO if 
it doesn't suit you! 

Mrs. P.: George Park, haven't you a vestige of sense? 
Don't you see that it is policy to accede to her request? 

Mr. P.: Will you be still and let me read? 

Mildred: Papa, why do you read all the time? 

Mr. P.: To find out what's going on. 

Mildred: Well, what's going on? 

Mr. P.: Oh, nothing much. 

Mildred: What do you keep on reading for, then? 

Mr. P.: There may not be much in this paper (to Mrs. 
Park), but I should like to read what there is. 

Mrs. P.: You read while I have such a momentous 
question to settle! You heartless wretch! 

Mr. P.: What is the use of my advising you; you will 
do just as you please anyway. 

6 



Mrs. P.: Mr. Park, you know that I always listen to 
you. 

Mr. P.: You listen all right— then do as you please. 

Mrs. P.: What alternative is there except to act on 
my own judgment when your advice is so senseless? 

Mr. P.: There you go! Didn't I tell you that no one 
in this house knows anything but you? So why should I 
waste perfectly good time and perfectly good breath when 
1 want to read this paper? 

Mrs. P.: If your disposition were only more equable 
like mine, life would be more* bearable. 

MiJdred: Papa, what do you do in your office all day? 

Mr. P. (absently): Oh, nothing. 

Mildred: How do you know when you're fru? 

Mr. P.: I don't know sometimes. (To wife) What do 
the children say about it? 

Mrs. P.: John is amazed that she could ask such an 
impossible thing. You should have seen his expression 
when I described that girl! 

Mr. P.: What did Alice say? 

Mrs. P.: She never enthuses over anything — for or 
against. George, what DO you think about it? 

Mr. P.: Lena, if you want my candid opinion, I say 
let her come! Something "gentle" and "good" around here 
might have a wholesome effect. I say let her come! 

Mrs. P.: If she were only good-looking and rich, then 
John could fall in love with her, and our financial diffi- 
culties would be solved. What explanation can we make 
to our friends for our unprecedented conduct in taking 
into our home a mere nobody? 

Mr. P.: Your powers of adjusting matters so that they 
shall appear perfectly proper in the eyes of the world are 
adequate for the exigencies of this case. 

Mrs. P.: I think I've solved the problem. 

Mr. P.: I thought you would, and to Mrs. Park's entire 
satisfaction. 

Mrs. P.: Stop that sarcasm, George. Carlyle said 
"Sarcasm,. is of the devil," and it is not hard to believe 
when you talk like this. 

Mr. P.: Really, Lena, I am curious to hear what your 

7 



fertile brain has developed in the way of an explanation 
for the dear public. 

Mrs. P.: This is just the natural expression of my 
love for the unfortunate. Why did I not think of that 
before and save myself all this needless agitation? Worry 
makes one look so old. 

Mr. P.: Isn't there some way to meet even such a 
contingency as that? 

Mrs. P.: Such a contingency as what? 

Mr. P.: As looking old. 

Mrs. P.: You old bear, go and dress for dinner. I'll 
write to my friend and tell her to send on her protege. 
I'll be a mother to the homeless girl. 

(Enter Robert with bandaged face.) 

Mr. P.: Well, young man, what have you been up 
to now? Fighting again over your neutrality? 

Robert: No sir, teacher whipped me and I fell over 
the desk. 

Mr. P.: What did she whip you for? 

Robert: Nothing, 'cept answerin' a question. 

Mrs. P.: That is strange; did you answer it correctly? 

Mr. P.: What was the question, Robert? 

Robert: She asked me who wrote on the board that 
she was a green persimmon. 

Mr. P.: You may come with me, young man, and I 
will show you a branch from a persimmon tree. Excuse 
me, dear, I'll not be long. 

(Father and boy go out.) 
(Mother meditates, father returns, begins to read.) 

Mrs. P.: When are you going to dress for dinner? 
We shall be late. (Looking over his shoulder.) What are 
you reading that is so absorbing? 

Mr. P.: "Taming of the Shrew." 

Mrs. P.: Horrid thing! I saw it played once. 

Mr. P.: Good! You can understand, then, why I 
like it. 

Mrs. P.: George, please come and dress for dinner. 

(Exeunt.) 
(Alice enters, looks at letter. John enters.) 



John: Hello, Sis; what you up to? 

Alice: Considering the family's latest problem. 

John: Oh come, fair one, forget it. Going to be home 
all evening? 

Alice: Yes; are you? 

John: No, I'm going to the club. Willie coming out 
tonight? 

Alice: No; some of the girls phoned that they were 
coming out, and do you know, John, I have a feeling 
that they have heard of the addition we are expecting to 
our family, and are coming purely out of curiosity. If "that 
girl," as mother calls her, is what mother thinks she is, 
I'd as soon be Daniel in the lion's den as what I'll be — the 
butt of their ridicule. 

John: I hate to further ruffle your plumage, dear one, 
but take it from me, "that girl" will be some agitating 
subject all right. I bet she's a tow-headed, faded, blue-eyed, 
docile creature who says "yes mam" and "no mam," "I 
have saw" and "I seen," "you dont say,' and "I want to 
know?" "the molasses, they are good." I hear those mag- 
pies coming, so I'll hike. Don't worry, sis, they could not 
have heard yet of mother's latest charity. How could they 
when we knew it ourselves only yesterday? 

Alice (wisely) : Mother spent the afternoon with her 
best friend. 

John: No doubt, then, your suspicions are well found- 
ed. But cheer up; dress the girl up, discourage conver- 
sation in her, and perhaps you will survive the ordeal. 
Good-night, sis. 

(Exit) 
(Enter three girls.) 

Ailce:. Come in, girls. So glad to see you. All well? 

Elizabeth: We couldn't wait another minute to hear 
about "that girl" that is coming to live with you. Do tell 
us about her. 



Helen: What did you say. Elizabeth 



Elizameth (impatiently) ; We want to hear about 
"that girl." 

Helen: Oh yes, I want to know, too. 

Alice: How did you know that she is coming? We 
knew it ourselves only yesterday? 



Elizabeth: Your mother told my mother and she told 
me and I told tho other girls because we are all so intimate. 
Haven't you any idea what she is like, Alice? Aren't you 
afraid people will think she is a poor relative? You know 
it really does look queer to suddenly add to your family a 
perfect stranger — a poor one, at that. 

Helen: What did you say? 

Elizabeth: Nothing of any importance. 

Helen: I'm so glad, for I do hate to miss important 
things. 

Elizabeth: Will you take her out and expect us to 
receive her just because she is living here, when we know 
nothing of her whatsoever? 

Alice: I shall certainly treat her like a human being. 

Jane: She could be a very nice girl, despite her 
poverty. 

Helen: What did you say, Jane? 

Jane: That "that girl" could be a very fine girl in 
spite of her plainness and poverty. 

Heien: Of course she could. I was poor once, and 
was just as good then as I am now, if not better. I was 
more natural then, and nature is wonderful. I just hate 
to act lovely when I feel perfectly horrid. 

Elizabeth (Aside): How vulgar to always refer to 
her past poverty! I should hide it. 

Helen: What did you say, Elizabeth? 

Elizabeth: It's a hot night. 

Helen: I don't think so. Do you, Jane? 

Jane: I'm quite comfortable. 

Alice: I don't think poverty is the worst thing in the 
world. 

Elizabeth: Oh, don't you? Well, you may expect con- 
siderable talk about this, nevertheless, Alice. It has al- 
ready created quite a stir. 

Alice: Strange how quickly news spreads; one would 
be justified in thinking that people had little else to do. 

Jane: I shouldn't let this worry me any, Alice. One 
of the finest girls I ever knew was "plain, good and poor." 
Whenever I think of that girl's struggles and attainments I 
feel condemned. She attended college where I did for 

10 



two years. Some good woman paid her tuition; her 
clothes were shabby and worn, and I knew by the flush 
that always spread over her face when she arose to recite 
that she was painfully aware of that shabbiness. I blush 
to tell it, but there was not a girl in her classes who had 
the moral courage to become her friend. I believe her 
life there was hideous, and nothing but her great yearning 
for knowledge impelled her to remain. So "that girl" may 
surprise you, Alice, and possess qualities that will dis- 
parage us. 

Elizabeth: What has come over Jane? (Sarcastic- 
ally) Since when have you become the champion of the 
weak, the defender of the oppressed? Perhaps you will 
have the temerity to espouse the cause of Mrs. Park's 
protege? 

Jane: I shall certainly be kind to her, if for no other 
reason than to make atonement for my part in the cruel 
treatment of the girl I told you of. 

Elizabeth: Mercy me! When are you going out as 
a missionary? 

Helen: What did you say? 

Elizabeth: Nothing. 

Helen: Oh, I thought so. 

Elizabeth: Where is your brother, Alice? I wish that 
he would drive us home; our car acted badly coming out. 
John is growing handsomer every day. Don't you think 
so, Jane? 

Jane: Yes, he does. What does he say of your com- 
ing guest? 

Alice: He refuses to discuss her; he is very fastidious 
about girls. 

Helen: What did you say, Alice? 

Alice: That John is fastidious. 

Helen: Oh, he likes me? 

Elizabeth: No, goose, he's particular. 

Jane: Isn't it too bad that she is so deaf? 

Elizabeth: I think it very fortunate; she does all of 
the talking now — what would she do if she could hear 
better and thus gain more subjects about which to make 
her inane remarks? 

Helen: What did vou say, dearie? 
11 



Elizabeth: That some people weary me. 

Helen: Do they? Who? 

Elizabeth: I must go. I'm tired — enormously tired. 
Isn't life deadly stupid? This town is as dead as Julius 
Caesar; nothing new, nothing startling, nowhere to go — 
deathly stupid everywhere! 

Jane: Wise folk say that life is what we make it, 
and that the happy people are the ones who have an aim 
in life. 

Elizabeth: What has come over you, Jane? You actu- 
ally give me the creeps with your melodramatic air? Alice, 
what is your contribution to this maelstrom of discontent 
and woe? 

Alice (laughing): I was just thinking while you girls 
were talking, what wonderful products of a wonderful age 
we girls are. Not one of us doing a single profitable thing ! 

Elizabeth: Good heavens! You getting it too — this 
appalling thoughtfulness! Jane, 'fess up. What has in- 
duced such self-abnegation? 

Jane: Perhaps the spirits of some of my ancestors 
who really amounted to something have returned to kindle 
a spark of ambition in their worthless posterity. To tell 
the truth, girls, I am disgusted and surfeited with the silly, 
empty life I am leading! I wish that I never had to go 
to another party so long as I live! I wish that I'd never 
have to dance around again on poor, corny, buniony feet, 
or have to smile any more polite smiles when my face is 
so tired of smirking that it positively aches. I just long 
to look into the face of a wholesome, strong man. I don't 
care if he be unshaven, and dressed in a red flannel shirt 
and corduroy; he'd look like an unshaven angel to me! 

Helen: Don't you like the boys any more, Jane? I 
think it must be lovely to be so popular as you. The boys 
do not seem to appreciate me ; . mother says it is because 
I am deaf and too natural. I've tried being unnatural like 
you girls when I'm out, but it makes me feel so deceitful, 
somehow, that I've stopped it. I shall remain sober and 
natural as I was created, and continue to hope that a 
Prince shall soon appear who will love a serious, natural 
girl like me. 

Alice (mock solemnity): "Life is real, life is ear- 
nest" Let's change the subject — this is a nightmare! 
Elizabeth, when are you going abroad? 



12 



Elizabeth: Goosie, we are not going. Don't you know 
there is a war in Europe? I'm very glad of it, because 
mother always wants to spend so much of the time at 
Lake Geneva and I could fairly scream when I think of 
it. There is nothing new there: just the same old habitues 
of the place, with their faces frescoed, kalsomiiied and 
enameled; just the same old hotels; just the same old 
mountains; just the same old blue sky; just the same old 
smell of pines; and the same old blue lake — all so deadly 
stupid. Oh, yes, I felt superlatively sprightly and gay as 
1 contemplated the ravishing sights! 

Jane: Come, girls, I realy must go. 

Elizabeth: Alice, call up your brother and ask him 
to drive us in. 

Alice: I am sorry, but I do not know where to get him. 

Elizabeth: Come on, girls; but I'll not guarantee you 
a safe or comfortable journey home. Isn't it deadly stupid 
that John is not here? 

Alice: Too bad, girlie 

Elizabeth: Good-night. Alice. We've had a lovely 
time. Be sure to let us know the moment "that girl" 
arrives, as I am consumed with curiosity. 

Alice: Very well; good-night. Wait; I'll go and see 
you off properly. 

(Exeunt) 
Curtain. 



ACT II. 

Scene: Same as before. Three months later. 

(Enter Alice. Ruth Bonelle examining pictures.) 

Alice (removing wraps): What are you studying so 
closely? 

Ruth: I'm not studying — I'm devouring a picture of 
home. 

Alice (caressing her): Home-sick, dearie? 

Ruth: Alice, my heart is broken with loneliness and 
longing. I want my mother! I want my father! Oh, to 
see their dear faces once again, and hear them speak my 
name! How can I live without them? 

Alice: I wish that I could help you, dear, but I don't 
know how, you are so different from us. 

13 



Ruth: Have you seen this picture of our home? Near 
this window grew a rosebush — I can smell the sweet fra- 
grance of it now as it was wafted in by the gentle breeze. 
Over here was a briar-rose, whose buds yielded sweet 
harvest for the honey bee. And right there were more 
roses, all flushed and warm as they nestled close to a pure, 
cool lily. 

Alice: What is that large tree there? 

Ruth: That is a great oak; mother called it the 
"patriarch" of the garden. 

Alice: Why did she call it that? 

Ruth: Because it looked innured to stand and suffer. 
Behind the hoase is a little brook that lulled me to sleep 
every night as it murmured over the pebbles. In this 
corner of the porch was a bird's nest. Each morning we 
were awakened by hymns of rapture from these song-birds 
that warbled from their latticed security. Mother's garden 
was beautiful; never a weed was allowed to violate this 
sanctuary — this garden of "love and inspiration." 

Alice: Your mother must have been a beautiful 
woman, Ruth. 

Ruth: I wish that you had known her. 

Alice: I've been thinking so much about what you 
told me the other day; about the time your mother spent 
with you, training you and teaching you, and leading you 
to confide in her. It seems to me that she was a most 
unusual mother. Why, come to think of it I never see my 
mother except at the table or when she consults me about 
a party or gown. She is so busy at one thing and another 
that she has no time for us. I suppose a mother's first 
duty should be to her children, but what would become of 
all the organizations that mother superintends if she gave 
her time to us? 

Ruth: Charity begins at home. 

Alice: Something has been oppressing me of late, 
Ruth; the other day I felt like going to my mother and 
throw my arms about her neck and ask her to advise 
me and help me. 

Ruth: Why didn't you? 

Alice: Why didn't I? She would have thought me 
crazy and would have sent for a brain specialist. My 
mother is almost a stranger to me. 

(Maid brings in card.) 

(Exit Alice) 
14 



(Ruth plays "Home, Sweet Home" softly. 

John enters and listens.) 

John: Please continue playing, Ruth. 

Ruth (starts to leave) : No, thank you, I must go. 

John: Please do not go, Ruth. Sit down and talk 
with me a while. You haven't spoken ten words to me this 
week Other girls do not treat me like that. What have I 
done to incur your displeasure? 

Ruth: Nothing. 

John: Then why don't you like me? 

Ruth: I did not say that I did not like you. 

John: Actions speak louder than words. Tell me, 
what can I do to gain favor in your sight? 

Ruth: Be a man. 

John (indignantiy) : I am a man. 

Ruth: Well, then, you are not the sort of man I like. 

John: Come, Ruth, tell me what is the matter with 
me? 

Ruth: Please excuse me; I must go. (Starts to leave 
the room.) 

John: No, I will not excuse you; you have thrown 
clown the gauntlet, and I accept the challenge. I am ready 
for the fight. Why am I not the sort of man you like? 

Ruth: You have no ambition. 

(Brother slips in and hides.) 

John: I didn't have any before you came, but I have 
now. Let us be friends,. Ruth — I'll forgive your wholesale 
disparagement. I've never seen a girl in my life that I 
admire as I do, or whom I think half so pretty. Will 
you go to the concert with me tonight? It is going to be 
great. 

Ruth: No, thank you, I cannot. 

John: I beg your pardon, but why not? 

Ruth: One reason is that your parents would dis- 
approve. 

John: I don't care about that; what is the other? 
(Boy sneezes, is discovered and ejected.) 

Ruth: I do not care to. 

15 



John: Why can't you be sociable and go out with us 
occasionally? Come, Ruth, be reasonable; I've loved you 
ever since you came. I'm not such a worthless chap as 
you seem to think me. You are the only girl I've ever 
cared a rap about. I know that I could be somebody if 
you would only help me. I wish I could command more 
gracious words in which to speak my love. Every move- 
ment and every word of yours are fraught with that un- 
elucidated influence that men call "charm." You must 
be the daughter of a long line of wonderful sires. Please 
love me just a little and tell me what I must do in order 
to come up to your standard of manhood. I'll do anything 
you say — even try to sell mustard plasters to a C. S., or 
diamonds to the old ladies' home. Be kind, Ruth; try to 
love me and some day I'll make you my wife. 

Ruth: Your wife! Never! I could never be your 
wife, but I will be your friend if you deserve it. The 
young men worth while see visions worthy of men. They 
work undaunted, determined to have a part in the work 
that the world has need to be done. The progress of 
tomorrow is built by the young men who see visions of 
ambition and accomplishment. Are you going to climb, 
or stay at the bottom, lazy and worthless during these 
youthful days of opportunity, miserably commonplace, as 
free from ambition as an animal waiting in its pen to be 
fed? Indolence is the sleep of the mind. Oh, that I had 
advantages like yours — a chance like yours! 

John: You need not covet my chance — I don't see 
any Unless one have wealth there is no opportunity for 
big things, and we have no wealth despite the fact of our 
simulating it. I could do great things if I had money. 

Ruth: There is a far greater wealth than dollars and 
cents, and it is available to whoever desire and seek it; 
but not to indolent or bigoted folk. Think of the wealth 
stored in books; think of the wealth that resides in paint- 
ing and music; think of the wealth that close communion 
with nature bestows; think of the wealth through friend- 
ships that have become to us the very fortifications of life; 
thinV of the wealth of love — that emblem of eternity; 
think of the wealth that a life of service to one's fellows 
will accumulate. This is wealth! 

Oh, the tragedy of idleness! The rosy-hued hopes it 
has smothered; the noble purposes it has thwarted; the 
lofty ideals it has shattered; the discontent, the cynicism, 
the suspicion it has bred; the desire for growth it has 
lulled to sleep; the passions roused, the crime it has 
fostered; the dull, dead level of mediocrity it has steadily 
fed! Oh, the blighting effects of idleness! 

16 



John: Ruth, be kind; do not judge me too harshly. 
What you have said has been a revelation to me. I have 
not deliberately turned aside from the consideration of 
these things, but have drifted — no better, no worse, than 
many others. You have aroused me from apathy! I feel 
a great power stirring deep in my spirit, an upheaval of 
something striving to be born! What do you want me to 
do to prove my sincerity? What do I need to do first? 

Ruth: Be a Christian, John. 

John: Be a Christian? What do you mean? We all 
belong to the church. 

Ruth: Being a church member does not necessarily 
imply being a Christian. 

John: Well, that is a new one on me. What is your 
idea of it, little one? 

Ruth: A Christian is a follower of Christ. 

John: I supposed all church members did that. 

Ruth: Some do and some do not. 

John: Well, suppose you explain. 

Ruth: Where Christians dwell, there abide gentle- 
ness, helpfulness, sympathy and love. I find none of these 
things here. All I hear is money, fashion and pleasure. 

John: This is all Greek to me. I've listened patiently 
to your nice little sermonette; please reward me with a 
smile, and say that you will go with me tonight. Your 
pretty lips were not made for such sombre words; they 
were made for smiles, laughter and kisses. (Approaching 
her.) Say that you will go to the concert with me tonight, 
Ruth 

Ruth (waiving him back): No, thank you, I cannot. 

John: You mean that you will not. Well, there are 
plenty of girls who will. Au revoir! 

(Exit John) 

(Ruth meditates. Enter Alice and Robert.) 

Robert (to Ruth): We kids are going to have a wed- 
ding. Come on and help stuff the preacher to make him 
look fat! Alice is going to play the march, and we are 
going to have it in here. Hurry up, before mother gets 
back from her charity board — she never lets us kids have 
any fun. 

Ruth: How many in your wedding party? 
17 



Robert: 'Bout a dozen — just asked anybody that hap- 
pened along. Some of them have gone home after their 

things. 

Alice: When shall I begin to play, Bob? 

Robert: I'll come in and give you the signal — no, 
begin it now and they can be getting into step. It won't 
take long to stuff the preacher, will it, Ruth? 

Ruth: No, come on, let's fix him up. 

(Ruth and Robert leave room. Alice plays.) 
Bridal party enters. 

Boy (from rear): Wait a minute! I want to be in 
on that, but I look so unfinished! 

Daniel: Come on, that's the way you always look; 
so what are you kicking about? Let's march around some 
more till he gets ready. I just love to march! When I 
get married, if I have to choose between the march and 
the bride, I'll take the march! 

Boy (clown): Who'll march with me? 

Giri: Not me! 

Gertrude: I will, John — nothing makes me sick. 

Preacher: Do you take this lady, Mr. Park, to be your 
only wife forever? 

Robert: Yes, I do. 

Preacher: Miss Lena Lev/is, do you take this gentle- 
man to be your only husband and promise to obey him 
forever? 

Lena: No, I will not. 

Preacher: Why won't you, I'd like to know? 

Lena: Because I've changed my mind! Now you may 
all walk around and view the remains. 

Preacher: This ain't no funeral. Where's the remains? 

Lena: Stupid! The remains of the wedding! There 
it is! (Points to groom.) Stop that laughing back there! 
This is a very solemn occasion — this is no laughing matter! 

Robert (mimics) : "This is no laughing matter." 

Lena: Be still, you forsaken-at-the-altar husband! Si- 
lence becometh thee! 

Robert: I'll not be still, you wretched husband- 
deserter! 

18 



Lena: Let's play something else. Let's play "Rorneo 
and Juliet." 

Gertrude: I'll be Womeo. 

Daniel: No, you won't; I'll be her myself! 

Gertrude: Oh, my baby is very sick. Get a doctor 
quick ! 

Preacher: What seems to be the matter? 

Gertrude: Oh, I don't know! Get a doctor, quick! 

Daniel: Let me walk him around a bit — that's what 
mother does when my little sister howls. (Walks about.) 

(Enter doctor, calmly removing gloves, etc.) 

Doctor: How long has she been in this comatose 
condition? 

Gertrude: There ain't nothin' a matter with her toes! 
I fink it's her 'pendix — everybody's a-detin' it! 

Doctor (aside): Send for a nurse at once! I will try 
to save your child. (Aside.) You had better take the 
mother away. 

Daniel: Say, doctor, I've had measles, mumps, rheu- 
matism and stomachache — eruptive, expansive, inflamma- 
tory and digestive diseases. Some diseases! The last 
named the worst of all. 

Doctor: That's a child's disease (scornfully). 

Daniel: You're mistaken. Why, I had it so bad after 
Christmas that it threw me on the floor, rolled me down 
twenty steps into the basement! When I was picked up 
later, a trifle sore and non compos mentis, the ache had 
entirely disappeared. Nov/, doctor, I have a very logical 
mind, and I have deduced from this unpleasant experience 
a fact that should be of wonderful assistance to the med- 
ical fraternity, namely: Shock has its place among the 
curative agencies of the world! 

Doctor: I should hesitate to try it on any of my 
patients. 

Daniel: I shouldn't if I were you. Well, as I was 
saying, I've had some diseases, but not an operative one. 
I should like to have everything, once, especially an oper- 
ation, since it puts one in a class all to oneself to have 
had something removed! 

(Enter nurse.) 

19 



Doctor: Nurse, prepare the patient for an operation 
on the heart. 

Preacher: Isn't that very serious, doctor? 

Doctor: No; science has made such wonderful ad- 
vancement that we now remove a man's heart as easily 
as we remove his lungs or brain. 

Preacher: But this is a female. 

Doctor: 411 the same thing, except the heart may be 
a little larger and softer. 

Nurse: The patient is ready. (Doctor operates.) 

Preacher: What form of heart trouble is this, doctor? 
Won't this be an expensive job, doctor? 

Doctor: Have they money? 

Preacher: Yes. 

Doctor: Yes, this is the most expensive operation we 
are ever called upon to perform because of the marvelous 
skill it requires. If we should accidentally leave the sur- 
gical scissors in the cavity there might be a suit for 
damages. 

Preacher: What form of trouble is this? 

Doctor: Endocarditis. The laity call it "hardening" of 
the heart. Seemingly, we are entering the realm of the 
minister, but in reality we come in only when he fails. He 
endeavors to soften the heart — we remove it. 

Robert: Do they live? 

Doctor: Yes, the world is full of heartless people. 
Everybody knows that. You may tell the mother it is all 
over and her child lives. 

(Enter Mrs. Park.) 

Mrs. Park: Robert, take these noisy children out of 
here at once. Girls, what do you mean by allowing this? 

Alice: Don't scold; they wanted to have a little fun. 

Mrs. Park: Go to your room, Alice. You may remain, 
Ruth; I have something to say to you. Be seated. I have 
a very unpleasant duty to perform, and I do trust that you 
will receive what I am going to say in the same kind spirit 
that it is given. I have not failed to note the unusual 
attention my son is paying you; nor have I failed to note 
the pleasure with which you receive it. Of course you are 
cognizant of the fact that you are a fairly good-looking girl ; 
but since you have no money, no position, you can scarcely 

20 



aspire to my son, who has a wonderful future before him. 
In extenuation of anything he may have said to you, or of 
any false hopes he may have raised, I have but this justi- 
fication to offer: Young men are very susceptible (old men, 
too, for that matter) to the charms of a pretty girl. In 
their youthful ardency they frequently do and say things 
which, after mature years have brought discretion, they 
deeply deplore. So I ask as a slight recognition of all that 
we have done for you, that you desist from your effort to 
allure our son. To be perfectly frank, our son must marry 
money. It is absolutely essential to his career. I trust 
that I have made myself perfectly plain, and that you will 
accede to my wishes. 

Ruth: Yes, Mrs. Park, you have made yourself per- 
fectly plain. I would spare you the deep humiliation that 
must follow your ill-advised words. You have been frank — 
brutally frank — and I shall follow your precedent with 
apologies to those who taught me to be kind. True, your 
son has pursued me with his most unwelcome attentions. 
Only today he was rude to me when I protested against 
them, and declined his attendance to the concert tonight. 
I have anticipated your wishes: I have refused to marry 
your son. 

Mrs. Park: John asked you to marry him? Incredible! 

Ruth: Do not be alarmed. I shall never marry your 
son. There is a gulf between us as wide as the sea. 

Mrs. Park: What do you mean to imply by your 
dramatic, enigmatical words? 

Ruth: I mean this: the man that I shall love and 
marry will not be a shriveled up soul, surfeited with the 
pleasures of life before life is scarce begun, and have 
no higher ambition than to go to the club and theatre. Ah! 
he reminds me of the Susquehanna River — fairly good to 
look at, but worthless because of its shallowness. Forgive 
my discourtesy; I do not mean to be rude, but I am pro- 
foundly stirred at the lack of righteous ambition in this 
home. What an opportunity lies at your door 

Mrs. Park: Stop, girl; I will suffer your impertinent 
criticism no longer. (Sarcastically) I wonder what you 
would have me do? Turn my home into an orphan asylum? 
You speak as if I did nothing for humanity. Only yester- 
day I sent a number of garments to a poor woman, and 
Mr Park supports the church generously. 

Ruth: That is not what I mean. By your teaching 
and example are you inspiring your children to the highest 
things? Do you go to the homes of the poor and the sick? 

21 



you make them feel that someone really cares? The loving 
word, the gentle touch, mean more than all else to the 
desolate. 1 know, for I have needed them sorely. 

Mrs. Park (turning away): Why, girl, you are a 
fanatic ! 

Ruth: Please do not turn away! Listen to me! I 
know that I am an unwelcome guest in this house 

(Maid shows in poor woman.) 

Ruth (to woman): Oh, good evening. 

.Mrs. Park (astonished): Ruth, who is this woman? 

Woman: Please excuse me for coming," but I was so 
hungry for a sight of my baby's face that i could not stay 
away. You see, I was never separated from him before, 
and he is all I have. I thought, perhaps, he was just as 
hungry for me as I am for him, so I've come to take him 
home. 

Mrs. Park: Ruth, who is this woman, and what is 
she talking about? 

Ruth: I beg of you, let me explain! I was taking a 
long walk the other day, when I found a little boy lying 
by the road crying piteously with pain because of a sprained 
ankle- I carried him to his home and assisted his mother 
in making him as comfortable as possible. I learned that 
it was imperative that she go out the next three days to 
work; that would leave the child entirely alone until night, 
and he was unable to rise without support. Returning 
here. I found it impossible to dispel the picture of the 
swollen ankle and white, quivering face. I could not sleep 
for thinking of his being alone those three long days, so 
the next morning I arose early, and while you were out 
motoring, I brought him here and took him to my room to 
care for him. I knew that you would disapprove, so I kept 
my secret with the aid of the maid, who pitied him, too. 
The big moments of life ought to come to us in beautiful 
places, but they do not for me. As I raised the little dar- 
ling from his bed and carried him from his home, while 
his baby lips whispered, "I love oo,; it would be so long- 
till muver comes back tonight," the greatest moment I 
have ever known came to me. It is compensation for any 
price I shall have to pay for my act; and it is a great price 
that I shall pay — I see it in your face. 

Mrs. Park: That child here in my house! Incredible! 

(Mildred enters with child in little wagon.) 

22 



Mildred: Willie heard his mamma's voice and cried 
to turn in, so 1 just hauled him in brover's wagon, tause 
he tan't walk. 

Woman (clasping child): My darling! 

(Mildred dances with glee.) 

Mrs. Park (snatching Mildred from child): Woman, 
bring your child and come with me. 

(Woman starts to obey, but turns back to Ruth.) 

Woman: I love you, girl, for your kindness to my 
cnild; the memory of it will brighten many a dark night. 
I have not always lived as you found me. Once I had a 
pleasant home, another child, a good husband. After a 
long illness, girlie died; then misfortune after misfortune 
overtook us. One day my husband came home deeply dis- 
tressed and said that he had been discharged because of 
inability to do the amount of work that he had formerly 
done His health had been failing for some time, and it 
was not long until he left me, too. I tried so hard to save 
the home, but there was not work enough for everybody, 
and no one wanted me because of the baby. I'm not com- 
plaining; I'm only telling you so you may realize how 
deeply your kindness has touched me. It makes me believe 
again that, perhaps, somewhere, there is a God who looks 
with compassion upon the sorrows of the poor! 

(All leave room but Ruth.) 

Mildred re-enters, excited. 

Mildred (sobbing): Mamma's sendin' dem away, Rune. 
(Throws arms about her.) Don't cry, Rune. Let's tell Dod 
about it. 

Ruth (holding child at arm's length and gazing at her 
fondly): "Suffer little children to come unto Me." 

Mildred: 'And forbid them not." 

Both: "For of such is the Kingdom of Heaven." 
(Embraces child.) 

Strains of "No room in the inn" are wafted in to Ruth 
and child as chey sit with bowed heads. 

No beautiful chamber, no soft cradle bed. 
No place but a manger, nowhere for His head; 
No praises of gladness, no thq't of their sin, 
No glory but sadness, no room in the inn. 



23 



CHORUS: 
No room, no room for Jesus, 

Oh, give Him welcome free, 
Lest you should hear at heaven's gate, 

"There is no room for thee." 

Mildred: No room for Jesus, neither? (Surprised and 
sorrowful.) 

(Curtain.) 

ACT Ml. 

Seven months later. 

(Maid dusting. Enter John.) 

John: What are you doing here? 

Maid: Shure, and cain't you see thet I'm a dustin'? 

John: Well, stop till I get out of here. 

Maid: Indade I won't — my time is pracious, and yours 
ought to be. (Shakes duster near him.) 

John: Stop that, I say, or I'll have you dismissed! 

Maid: You naden't throuble yourself about that; your 
mither has already antacapated your wishes and dismissed 
me — but I'm not a goin'. Oi'm goin' to stay and see what 
Miss Ruth is goin' to do with you. If Oi hadn't a been so 
interested in you and her Oi'd have been gone long enough 
ago. Oi don't loike it here — you're too ardinary for me. 
(Shakes duster again.) 

John: Stop that, I say, Leigh! By the way, Biddy, 
where did you get that name of yours? It's a boy's name. 

Maid: Shure, and Oi'd rather be named after a dacant 
boy thin after jist enybody. Oi have the full name of my 
Uncle O'Doud. Of course, you have heard of him — he is 
a grate lawyer! He niver lost but one case in his loife, 
and that was not his fault; it was caused by the parvarsity 
of a American gurrul. 

John: How was that? 

Maid: Well, you see, it was loike this: When he 
was a courtin' the prisent Mrs. O'Doud she didn't loike 
his name — she said it was too Irish. She was a sweet, 
pretty little thing, but awful obstreferous. Altho that 
eloquent tongue of his had won her love, still the dasase 
had not took her so hard that she would stand for ivery- 
thing about him. So* what did that parvarse gurrul do 

24 



but damand that he drop the "O" and have a dacent 
American name. So it is Mr. Doud iver sance. You may 
talk about your "peace" advocates; about Bryan giving up 
a perfectly good job for peace; about Ford taking a per- 
fectly good trip for peace; but belave me, nather one 
of them made the sacrifice my uncle did when he gave 
up a perfectly good name for peace. (Laughs heartily.) 

John: What's so funny? 

Maid: Oi could die a laughing when Oil think what 
a long argument that was! Oi heard him a tell it myself, 
that he began in the morning, he argued it all day; he took 
it up again in the evening and kept it up till 12 o'clock; 
then when he saw no signs of her a givin' in, he made 
one last grand appale. He stood up before her! If you 
have niver seen my Uncle O'Doud stand up before a jury 
in that foine way of his with his eyes a twinkling loike 
two stars in the milky way, and his hand a foolin' with 
his watch-chain, you've missed an imposing sight — belave 
me! 

John: How did it come out? 

Maid: Figure it out for yourself — he's been known 
iver sance as Mr. Doud. (Looks at large doll.) Oi'll declare 
if this doll hasn't the same beautiful fatures loike my 
Uncle O'Doud! (Kisses doll.) He hasn"t but one inemy 
in the world; iverybody loves him. 

John: Who's his enemy? 

Maid: Once he was at a grate dinner party, and a 
grate singer sat next to him; she was enything but beau- 
tiful, but Oh my, she could sing! The people got to 
talking about blind and deaf folks. Now my uncle is 
absent from himself sometimes when he is on a case, so 
when the lovely singer turned to him suddenly and asked, 
"Which would you rather be, blind or deaf?" he turned 
his lovely eyes upon her and answered in a far-away voice, 
"Blind, when Oi look at you; deaf when Oi hear you sing!" 

John: No wonder she's his "inemy"! 

Maid: Too bad; it's a growin' on him, too — this 
absenteeness. Yes, it's too bad! Why, do you know that 
he took his wife out a ridin' last summer and she got out 
for to gather some wild flowers, and he forgot her and 
drove home without her? After he got home he waited 
for a long time for his dinner and his wife; when nather 
came he got worrit and telephoned the polace that he 
feared that she had been kidnaped, and for them all to 
get out and hunt. Just as iverybody was a gettin' ready 

25 



to hunt, in walked Mrs. O'Doud every bit as mad as Moses 
was when he found that crowd what he was a tryin' to 
lade worshiping a calf; if there had been anything around 
to brake she would have braked it, too, just as Moses did, 
she was that mad. 

John: How did she get home? 

Maid: Somebody picked her up and brought her home. 
She was ashamed to tell them that he had forgot her, so 
she let them think that she was crazy and just wanderin' 
around. When it got out, it hurt his practice considerable; 
many people said that if his absenteeness throubled him 
loike that he might forget which side of a case he was 
on and plade for the wrong side. His powers of persuasion 
are truly wonderful (dreamily). If he can plade his love 
for a gurrul like he plades a case, Oi- 

John (laughing): So you'd like to be the "gurrul," 
would you? 

Maid (appraisingly) : Say, do you know that you are 
different from what you used to be before Miss Ruth came? 

John: Is that so, Biddy? Tell me what difference 
you see. 

Maid: Oi can't explain it, but you are different. But 
you've got to go a different way yet before you're different 
enough to maKe any difference with Miss Ruth, who is so 
different from you in so many different ways that she can 
still see the difference between you and the different folks 
that ar so different from you in so many different ways. 
That is the difference. 

John: Thank you, Leigh. I shall be more different 
still. 

Maid: Mercy! Ain't he impressed with himself! 

(Alice enters.) 
Alice: I thought I heard voices? 

Maid: You did. Your brother dropped in and Oi was 
giving him some advice. 

Alice: Leigh, you are entirely too late with your dust- 
ing, and in the future reserve your advise for those who 
ask it. 

Maid: Shure and Oi should be glad to do that, but the 
very ones what nade it the most don't know enough to 
ask it. 

(Exit maid) 
(Alice arranging books, John reading.) 
26 



Alice: I presume it will create quite a stir for a club 
like ours to go down to the slums and sing at a mission. 
A unique experience, to say the least. Quite a fad to sell 
tags and give charity balls, but to use our trained voices 
on which our indulgent papas have spent so much money — 
that is entirely different! 

John: What are you going to do with all of those 
books, Sis? 

Alice (surprised): Why, I've just been telling you! 
Haven't you heard a word I said, John Park? We're going 
to have a prayer meeting here tonight! Why don't you 
laugh? 

John: Nothing to laugh at, for I know very well if 
that be true, Ruth is at the bottom of it; anything that 
she sees fit to engineer I'll not laugh at. 

Alice: Well, we are not going to have a prayer meet- 
ing; but we are going to practice songs to sing in the 
slums. How perfectly funny that you should think we 
were going to have a prayer meeting! Goosie, don't you 
know that it is impossible to have a prayer meeting unless 
people can pray? And who in our bunch could pray? 

John: That's so; I hadn't thought of that. Will Ruth 
be in here while you practice? 

Alice: Yes indeed; she loves such songs as we shall 
sing. 

John: I'll be here, too. I want to be near her when 
she is smiling and gracious — she is so cold and formal 
with me. Do you know, Sis, that I'd rather have a smile 
from her than anything else in this world? 

Alice: Too bad she won't love you; but if you want 
her love, John, you will have to qualify. I don't blame 
you for loving her; isn't she splendid? I feel a vague 
stirring, a reaching out after something since she is here; 
my thoughts, my ideals, are all changing. Isn't her silent 
influence wonderful? 

John: Is it? (Walks about, thinking.) What time 
are the folks coming? 

A I ice : Eight- thirty. 

John: I'll be here. 

Alice: I wouldn't if I were you. John; mother will 
know that you come just to be near Ruth, and there will 
be another scene. 



27 



John: I'll be here just the same! The next scene 
will be with me; (Exit John) 

(Enter Mr. and Mrs. Park.) 

Mrs., Park (taking up paper): I see Dame Fashion 
has decreed still fuller skirts. I am sorry, for I like narrow 
ones much better. And I see, dear, that the gentlemen's 
coats are to be fuller, too. How do you like the idea? 

Mr. Park: Don't like it! Shan't wear them! I'm not 
going back to kilts. If you want to look like a balloon, 
you may, but I'll not. One slave to fashion in the house 
is enough. 

(Enter Ruth and Uncle. Introduces Uncle.) 

Mrs. Park: Did you know that your uncle was coming, 
Ruth? 

Ruth: No, I did not. But isn't it lovely that he came? 
Oh, Uncle! I'm so happy to see you! Are you well? Did 
you miss me very much? How is my little bird, and is 
my rose-bush growing well? Are »Fido and Kitty still 
chums? How is little Tom, and does he remember me? 
Oh, Uncle, I am so glad to see you ! . ' 

Uncle: I am glad to see you, my child; my old eyes 
have ached for a, sight of your pretty face. I have come 
to take you home, for my heart read between the lines, 
and I discovered what you were too brave and loyal to tell. 
I divined your loneliness and struggle. (Turning to family.) 
I am generally accounted a queer old man — "eccentric," 
most people say — and what I am going to tell you now will 
only corroborate that opinion. 

(To Ruth) : Child, I implore you to forgive the decep- 
tion I have practiced upon you; it was prompted by my 
love for you. 

(To the Parks) : I have no apology to make to you. 
You have entertained an angel. From this girl's early 
childhood I have known that her heart and mind 
were attuned to the beauty of the skies. As each 
succeeding year fulfilled the promise of her child- 
hood, I wondered if that young life were deeply 
enough rooted in the firm, rich soil of love to withstand 
the fires of temptation. I had to know; so it was I who 
prevailed upon Mrs. Clifton to send my child here. I have 
a friend who knows you and your household well, and from 
what I learned of it I conceived the idea of sending her to 
you to pass through the testing and refining process. I 
see you start — I mean no insult; I only speak the truth! 
I deliberately placed her in the furnace, believing that she 
would come out untouched, unburned — pure gold. But I 

28 



had to know of her strength before I unfolded my great 
plan for her! She has alM r ays breathed forth a loving, 
compassionate nature. Wherever there was sickness or 
need there was she to bless and help. When she was but 
five years old, in her play-house were gathered at one time 
a strange family— a kitten, a big dog, a lame chicken, two 
rabbits and a sick lamb. They dwelt together in peace 
and comfort; the love of this child blessing them all. In 
a little rcom adjoining hers lay, for three weeks, a home- 
less newsboy who was crippled by a car. She helped nurse 
him back to health, and from that day the desire of her 
heart has been to establish a home for poor and sick 
children. I have come to say that her dreams shall be 
realized, for I know that she is strong and worthy to 
undertake so great a work; and a hospital she shall have 
for her little ones! 

Ruth: But uncle, the money? It will take a lot of 
money! 

Uncle: There is plenty of money, my child. I may 
be a queer old man, but I am not a poor one. You may 
have all the money your enterprise requires. "You have 
been faithful over a few things; I will make thee ruler 
over many things." 

Ruth: When can we begin, Uncle? When shall we 
go home? 

Uncle: Tomorrow, dear. 

(Enter John; is introduced.) 

Uncle (closely scrutinizing John): So this is the 
young man who claims to love and wants to marry my 
girl? 

John: I love her, and have asked her to marry me. 

Uncle: You are not half bad. There may be hope 
for you. I've seen large oaks from little acorns grow; I've 
seen the lightning chained; I've seen ships in the air; I've 
heard the human voice a thousand miles distant; I've seen 
sins like scarlet washed as white as snow: so there is hope 
for you, young man. No, you are not half bad. If you 
would put aside your shoddy aristocracy, and cultivate that 
true aristocracy of mind and heart that inspires men to 
help lift the burden of the world ; that inspires men to 
turn the current of human lives into larger rivers of use- 
fulness — then I say, young man, there is hope for you. Yes, 
I have seen even greater miracles than that would be! The 
secret of life and development is to fall in with the forces 
at work, and do every moment's duty right. 

29 



(Enter maid with card. Exeunt Mr. and Mrs. Park.) 

John: Ruth, are you going to leave us soon? Won't 
you please give me a little sympathy? I'm not the aimless 
fellow I was a few months ago. I know that my manhood's 
noblest self has been covered with rubbish, but I'm different 
now, for I've laid my selfish attributes on the altar of love. 
Many a time when I've been inclined to do wrong, the 
thought of you has kept me right. Just ask any of the 
fellows and they will tell you I am different. Can't you 
see it, Ruth? 

(Exit Uncle) 

Ruth:. Yes, I have noted the indomitable resolution 
in your eyes and voice. 

John: Ruth, I love your sweet sympathy, your free- 
dom from pose and affectation, your loftiness of thought 
and word. You have revealed a new world to me; now do 
you mean to leave me to travel its difficult paths alone? 
Won't you stay with us and teach me the way? 

Ruth: No, I cannot stay, but I will leave you an infal- 
lible guide. (Taking Bible.) This is my mother's Bible; 
I never look at it that I do not see her dear face bending 
over it. See, here are her markings! How I love those 
marked places! What a rich inheritance is a mother's 
marked Bible! If all mothers would so link their lives 
with this Book, that to their children down the vista of 
the years the sight of it would recall them, more children 
would walk in the right way because of the impetus re- 
ceived at their mother's knee. I leave this with you; it 
will guide and bless you. You may return it to me at the 
end of a year. 

John: May I not see you before then? 

Ruth: No, you must first serve your apprenticeship. 

John: My apprenticeship? 

Ruth: Yes, your apprenticeship to Christ 

(Alice enters with several girls.) 

Jane (looking over music on piano): Let's sing some 
of these old songs until the others come. (All sing "Carry 
Me Back to Old Virginny.") 

Girl: Here are the others. What are we going to 
sing at the mission? 

Jane: The minister made but one selection; he left 
the others to us. 

30 



Girl (sneeringly) : It's a wonder that he would trust 
our judgment. 

Girl (wisely): He knew that Jane would be here. 
Alice: I admire his taste, Jane, and yours, too. 
Jane: This is the song he selected. Shall we practice? 
(All sing "For You I Am Praying.") 
(During singing, Mr. and Mrs. Park and Uncle enter.) 
Alice: What is the next? 
Jane: Ruth, tell us your favorite. 

Ruth: The song I love best is "Where He Leads Me 
I Will Follow." 

Uncle: Tell them why you love it, child; it will do 
them good. 

Ruth: I cannot remember the time when I did not 
love Jesus. When I was about fifteen I learned to know 
Him as I had never known Him before. I was listening to 
a great Bible teacher on the ministry of Christ, when 
suddenly I seemed to hear a sweet voice whisper "Come, 
my child." While I sat entranced the choir began to sing 
softly "Where He Leads Me I Will Follow." Listening to 
the Voice that was now strangely blended in beautiful 
harmony with the music of the choir, I knew the Voice — it 
was my Saviour calling me. The vision I had of Christ 
that day was one of Service. I saw Him take the little 
ones in his arms and bless them; I saw Him open the 
eyes of the blind and cleanse the leper's spots; I saw Him 
feed the hungry multitude and calm the waves; I saw Him 
send the sinful woman away forgiven; I saw Him stretch 
forth His loving arms as He yearningly said "Come unto 
me all ye that labor and are heavy-laden and I will give 
you rest." And I knew my Christ. Oh, that you all might 
know Him! Let us ask our Father to put upon our lips 
the sweet message of Christ; to stamp upon our hearts 
His blessed face; to fill our lives with His compassionate 
love, and help us to see in the despairing hands held 
out to us the bleeding hands of our crucified Lord. 

(After a moment's intense silence, all but Mrs. Park 
sing the first verse, feelingly and reverently, during which 
the impression made by Ruth's words deepens. When the 
verse is finished, Mrs. Park rises slowly with the light of 
a great revelation on her face, and approaching the singers, 
and Ruth, who stands in their midst, declares earnestly, 
"I'll go with Him, too." Ruth and the family group about 
her as all sing last verse softly.) 

(Curtain.) 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




017 401 614 8 




